


Slow Like Honey, Heavy with Mood

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: ABO AU, Frottage, M/M, broken side!xiutao, implied xiuhan - Freeform, nonpenetrative knotting, referenced offscreen heat sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tao unnerves him, and Jongdae lets himself be unnerved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Like Honey, Heavy with Mood

It’s some time after 11PM, and Jongdae is already settling down to sleep—lights off, covers drawn, glasses on the crooked nightstand by his bed, phone alarm set for 7:30 so he can truly _seize the day_ as soon as he awakens. He'll shower, eat a _real_ breakfast, go to the library to return his almost overdue books, buy more flashcards and highlighters from the bookstore, practice in the studio with his choir group, get groceries, get ahead in his course readings.

Intentional, anticipatory, Jongdae's already settled down for sleep, already almost there, too, his eyes closed, breathing even, limbs loose, mind nearly blank when he hears the knock.

It’s soft, hesitant even, apologetic maybe, but Jongdae startles awake, nonetheless, body jerking violently, heart jumping to his throat.

On call, he remembers, he’s ever on call. Ever on call, ever reliable. And he should always strive to assist residents in resolving their concerns and issues, he remembers, reminds himself as he stumbles to turn on his light, stumble-gropes for his glasses, stumbles towards the door.

Clumsy, smile strained, he opens it.

There's a man standing there. Tall, looming, imposing dressed in all black, glinting with the excess of jewelry on his body, and an appraising, sleepy, just slightly grumpy squint confirms no, he isn’t one of Jongdae’s.

Jongdae’s memorized all their names, room numbers, birthdays, and as he leans subtly closer—close enough for Jongdae to get more than a vague whiff—Jongdae realizes why. An Omega.

"You were sleeping," the man says, soft, hesitant, definitely apologetic.

"I was." And the two syllables have the man's shoulders rolling forward in a gesture of vague discomfort, vague apology. He looks like he’d been dressed to impress in his enticingly tight jeans, loose tank top, but looks like he’d failed in his endeavor and is now painfully sad. And though he’s tall, imposing, the softness, the hesitance, the silent apology in the curl of his body, they all serve to make him look small, vulnerable.

He’s young. A first-year, Jongdae decides. An Omega first-year. Definitely not one of his, definitely doesn’t belong here.

“Your whiteboard outside said 'Here to talk; here to help,'" he starts. "And I—but you were sleeping."

"I was," Jongdae says once more, tries to be less sharp this time, more comforting, motioning for the man to continue.

“I saw it, and I just needed someone to talk to. I—I’m having a bad night.”

His voice is quavery, words short and clipped, careful like he’s thinking his way through every single one of them, and when Jongdae tilts his head up, squints up to look into his eyes, it’s to see that they’re nearly fucking brimming with tears.

Oh fuck. An Omega first-year, in an all Alpha dorm, having a bad night.

Jongdae swallows hard, assuming the worst.

“Are you—” he starts, and the boy's lower lip starts trembling. He sucks it into his mouth, and his fingers curl to fists at his sides. The rings on his knuckles glitter as he turns his hands inwards. A submissive gesture. His hands are trembling.

“Hey,” Jongdae tries. “Hey, hey. What’s your name?”

“Tao.”

“Tao, I’m Jongdae. I'm a Resident's Assistant. I'm here to talk. Here to help. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need to me to call someone.”

The boy's thumbs hook into his belt loops. His hands are still trembling but less violently. He shakes his head hard. “It's not that serious," he insists. "It's stupid. I can handle it." 

Inhaling deeply, he squares his shoulders with purpose, a false bravado. And crestfallen, pathetic and painful as the gesture looks, he’s still so broad, still so big. It’s a convincing enough lie if you don't hear the quaver in his voice, note the tears, see the tiny tremor in his fingers.

Jongdae motions for him to continue.

"I came to meet someone, but we—" A pained, slow, slow swallow. “We broke up. I said I could get home on my own, and I can. I said I understood, and I do. You were sleeping,” he says, his voice achingly thick with emotion.

Jongdae glances up at him once more, decides that no, he can't really handle it. 

And Jongdae was the kind of person that was made for these situations, he thinks, even with his glasses askew and his pajamas loose and his face smelling of that medicinal night cream that Joonmyun his choir hyung swears by, even with a very long list of things that he's going to need to do in order to manage his time more efficiently and truly make the most of every day.

“It's okay,” Jongdae says, then stepping back. “We can still talk. I _want_ to talk. Come on in." 

Soft, hesitant, apologetic, like a chastened child, Tao shuffles inside. Jongdae motions to his rumpled bed, asks if he's okay, and those tears are no longer brimming, sliding reckless and telling down his cheeks as his face contorts with emotion.

He cries ugly, too obvious and too contorted, and it makes Jongdae’s heart hurt. He quells the urge to press a hand to his shoulder and squeeze hard in something comforting and grounding, settles instead for sitting across from him on the wrinkled mess of Joonmyun's gift quilt, knee bumping his as he meets his red-rimmed eyes.

It's been a while since Jongdae's had a relationship end, longer yet since he had his heart broken. And he doesn't know the specifics of their relationship, the specifics of how Tao handles break ups, is still vaguely aware of the productive Saturday morning he's sacrificing for the sake of comforting this strange boy.

This boy needs it, Jongdae reasons, and Jongdae should do his best to help even if he isn’t obligated to. This boy _needs_ it. But what it is, that's still unclear.

His shoulders are shaking just slightly with silent, shaky sobs. 

"Do you want me to talk or do you want me to listen?" Jongdae finally asks.

“Listen, I think.” Tao manages. A wet, shuddery inhale. "I was dumped. It's really not that—I just...I'm kinda sad, and my heart hurts."

“Tonight, right?” Jongdae tries. "By one of my residents? That's why you're here even though you're too young and an Omega. You were dumped by one of my residents?"

The accusation bleeds into his words without his explicit permission, and he softens it with a hesitant _right?_.

Tao doesn’t answer, and Jongdae turns to regard him with more scrutiny. Tries to place him with more than the vague familiarity of a maybe friend’s friend, someone that he might have bumped into in the dorm showers, someone whose Facebook profile he stumbled upon after several hours of Facebook stalking.

His face isn't familiar, but his body vaguely is. The breadth of his shoulders, the ripple of his muscles beneath his golden skin, the gaudy jewelry.

And oh, it clicks.

The small Alpha. Small like Jongdae, like Joonmyun, but quieter. Minseok. He’s seen him with Minseok.

Incongruously popular, a soccer star, architecture student, occasional dancer. Jongdae’s cursor had hovered over his profile picture when creating their Residence Hall Facebook group. Because romantic relationships with residents were dicey and discouraged, had to have preapproval from the admins at the Residence Hall Association, and Jongdae had had to remind himself that not many were worth all that hassle even if their ass was to _die_ for.

Kim Minseok, who has tonight dumped Tao, the boy crying on the edge of Jongdae's bed.

"Minseok," Jongdae says, and Tao stiffens, swallows down a sob. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

And Tao shakes his head resolutely. Hesitates. Soft, hesitant, apologetic, crying more quietly now, wiping fruitlessly at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"Can you just—I know we just met, and that you—but can you just _hold me_?" Tao drops his gaze, speaks to the fingers twisting at Joonmyun's quilt in his lap.

Jongdae has never been good at quieting that frustrating need to protect others, to sooth away their worries, and fears, to cradle and coddle and treasure all the small, broken things that wander into his path. Never been one to deny a hug either. Saturday morning plans be damned. 

And Tao just _melts_ into it, less biological imperative more just pathetically honest need for human contact, Jongdae thinks.

Tao sighs into it, too, body sagging against his, arms winding tight and demanding, hot breath ghosting over Jongdae’s throat. 

And it's nice for Jongdae, too, holding after so long, being held after so long and by someone that doesn't push him away, doesn't chide him for being so _clingy_ and _touchy_ , Jongdae, I love you, too, but do we always need to hug in order to prove it, do we always need to be so close.

His arms loop around the solid, impressive breadth of Tao’s shoulders, and Jongdae curls forward to nose at his warm chest, inhaling the sweet scent of his contentment. It dances on the tip of his tongue, sweet, heavy, and warm. Omegas are always the nicest to hold, Jongdae thinks. Especially the big ones. There’s more to sink into. 

And Jongdae feels very small like this, but Minseok is small, too. He probably had to hold Tao like this when he needed holding, probably would have held Tao like this had he not decided to break Tao’s heart tonight.

Still holding, still not putting any distance between them, Tao shifts to press his lips absently to the crown of Jongdae’s head, breath hot and shuddery and wet.

Against Jongdae’s ear, Tao’s chest rumbles. Contentment. But even then, Jongdae can the soft hitch of aborted sobs, his breath too shaky.

Jongdae doesn’t need this, but he can enjoy for what it is, physical affection—pure, platonic, palpable affection, the kind that Jongdae likes to abandon himself in. 

"Can I—can I spend the night?” Tao’s asks after several shaky, shudder inhales. “Can you just _hold_ me, please?”

And the fact that it's not for sex, just just for this strange thing, that almost makes it more intimate, has Jongdae contemplating the ethical soundness of indulging a sad Tao. 

“Please say yes.”

Tao, Jongdae thinks, would be one of those boys that would cuddle up against him after study sessions, scary movies, sad, lonely days. The kind of boy that needs held hands and butterfly kisses and comforting arms looped around his waist some days—most days—the kind of boy that soaks up all the affection that Jongdae has in excess.

A Sanghyuk, a Jongin, a Jimin, a Minhyuk. 

Jongdae has never been good at saying no, especially not when requests are paired with large eyes and warm skin and soft hearts. 

“Yes,” he says, and Tao smiles against his temple. His sigh this time sounds less wet, more assured, more content. 

Curling, cuddling closer, Tao closes the distance between them without asking, limbs winding, breath ghosting over Jongdae’s cheekbone as they sink back into Jongdae’s mattress. 

It’s been a while since he’s been held this close, been even longer since he was not the initiator.

Pressed this close, acquiescing, Jongdae gets a deeper whiff of Tao. It’s debilitating. 

Tao, like this, given what he wants, he’s almost nauseatingly, syrupy sweet, reminds Jongdae of popsicle juice dripping between your fingers in the sweltering heat of summer. The messy kind of indulgence that leaves you stained and sticky. Yes, Tao would be the residual kind of lasting you’d be able to taste on the back of your throat for hours after he’d left.

And Tao, Tao’s kind of Omega, he’s the kind of treat you gorge yourself on to nausea, the kind of sweet that you binge, the kind of indulgence that leaves you with an ache in your teeth, a pang in your stomach, a hunger still in your throat for more, more, more. 

As they tangle together beneath his comforter, fully-clothed, overtly-platonic, there’s a brief jolt of want, a fleeting reckless, powerful sort of hunger curling low in his throat. Biological imperative, unchecked chemistry. 

Tao nuzzles against him, and a low, low, base, base growl unfurls on Jongdae’s tongue. The moment is brief but potent, alarming. 

Tao, though, doesn’t make to pull away. 

And it passes. 

The denim of Tao’s too-tight pants is rough against the bare skin of his hip, hard where it scrapes against his rumpled cotton pajamas, but Tao’s skin is warm and soft wherever it meets his, his sigh entirely too persuasive. 

And Jongdae sags against him so, so easily. 

“You’re such an Alpha,” Tao notes absently nuzzling into that sensitive place where Jongdae’s shoulder meets his throat, nose dragging there in a distracted, purposeless caress. “Smell so much like an Alpha.” There’s a shaky, shuddery hum of approval, the rapid kiss of eyelashes against his throat. 

Another moment almost rises, but Jongdae is able to anticipate it, thwart it with a soft fond hum of his own. 

He's warm, solid, comfortable, and oh so long, so thoughtful as he hums, slides Jongdae’s glasses off, sets them delicately on his dresser. 

The _perfect_ cuddle partner, Jongdae decides, only mildly alarmed at this turn of events.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep like that, even with the lights still on. 

 

Tao is still there when he awakens.

Shifting enough to see, Jongdae watches him sleep.

And he’s prettier when his face isn’t twisted in pain, more gorgeous in repose. There’s something utterly captivating about the slope of his cheek, the sharp cut of his eyes, the proud line of his jaw, something decidedly awful about it, too. 

Jongdae isn’t usually one for faces as these, faces too pretty to touch, to pretty to feel real. Jongdae always feels overcome with the ugly desire to make them twist in anger or hurt or confusion, likes sometimes to make them cry, but Tao’s is so nice to look at it, nice enough for smiles and pursed lips and content lines. Looks best like this, should stay like this.

Jongdae is just slightly mesmerized, watches, watches, watches. 

But he blinks as the startled, beautiful man beside him finally, finally rouses, too, watches through sleep-heavy eyelashes as he curses, stands, stumbles away and out the door. 

Reeling just slightly from the surreal turn of events, Jongdae resets his phone alarm for a more opportune time.

11AM. 

That's still more than half the day to seize, he reasons, curling back into his sheets, nuzzling into the lingering sticky sweet scent left there.

 

When he awakens, Jongdae does shower, eat a real breakfast, resolve to be productive still, but he's interrupted with another soft, hesitant even, apologetic maybe knock at his door before he has a chance to the load his messenger bag, go to the library to return his almost overdue books, buy more flashcards and highlighters from the bookstore, practice in the studio with his choir group, get groceries.

It's the man—Tao—once more. The dark circles beneath his eyes are less pronounced, and the smile on his face seems more genuine, though he’s still more than vaguely apologetic. He’s carrying a brown paper bag. Meal plan bagels, two sets, an apology, he says, and also a thank you.

For the second time in 12 hours, Jongdae invites him inside. And for the second time in 12 hours, Tao plops down on his bed. 

But it’s made this time and Tao isn’t on the verge of tears, doesn’t look like he’s just barely holding himself together. 

But still, Jongdae knows that it’s a raw wound, a sore spot. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, and Tao shakes his head, then nods after a tense beat.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

But they sit in silence, tense, tense silence for three, four, five beats.

“Minseok,” Jongdae presses, and Tao’s eyes flicker with pain. He drops his gaze, fingers crinkling the brown paper bag in his lap. “You used to see Minseok.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Tao says. “It’s stupid how much I cried because we weren’t a real relationship, and he wasn’t my boyfriend. And I _knew_ that. I wanted that, too because I don’t feel more for people than they feel for me. I don’t want them more than they want me. He wasn't my boyfriend. We weren't even exclusive.”

A sigh, a groan, the crinkle of paper in his tense fists.

“You were...friends—”

“With benefits, yes. And every Friday, we'd have a...." He trails off, drags his fingernails down the inseam of his darkwashed jeans. "It wasn't a date," Tao says, with furrowed eyebrows and a wavery sort of conviction, like he's deciding, maybe seeing it that way for the first time. "We had an appointment, I think. Friday nights were for the two of us. We'd eat dinner together, hook up, Minseok would let me stay the night. But it wasn't a date. We weren't dating. Because he wasn't my boyfriend." A long, long, long pause. “We both knew that.”

“And last night...?”

This sigh is shakier, thick with emotion. "He found someone else. Someone that he did want to be exclusive with, that wanted him to be exclusive, too.”

Jongdae’s lip purse. 

“I don’t even want to date him. I didn’t even want use to be boyfriends, but it just—why would you pick someone over me? Why were you looking at other people when you had me? When you had our appointment, and I’m so _good_?”

A secondhand wave of embarrassment and a nausea washes over Jongdae, and he swallows it with a grimace.

“So I—I asked him. I shouldn’t have asked him, but I asked him.”

“Tao—”

“I’m not a child,” he says. “Not too young. Not too irresponsible. Not to reckless. Not too needy. I’m a viable option. I can be what someone wants. I can be _exactly_ what someone wants. I know that, but it’s still—”

Tao’s voice is wavering again, and Jongdae reaches out for him, fingers wrapping around a shaking wrist. 

“We were friends with benefits, you know. It wasn’t that serious between us. Neither of us wanted it to be. But, I still feel so—” Tao presses his hand to his chest, palm flat, rubbing over the just slightly exposed skin. “Empty, I think. Disposable. He said I’m too young, that I’m too immature, that I’m—That that’s why it would never have...” Tao’s shoulder bunch, fingers clench. “I shouldn’t have asked him. I don’t know why I asked him.”

Jongdae doesn’t know what to say, so he touches him instead, fingers brushing over his. 

“I’m taller than him, his new boyfriend. I’m stronger, too. Tanner. Hotter. He’s Chinese, too, but I’m _better_. I don’t look like an old man when I laugh. I can do wushu. And yeah I don’t drink coffee, but since when is that even—But none of that matters, does it? If I’m not what he wants emotionally. If he’s just not romantically...” Tao trails off.

“How long were you two...together?”

Tao bites his lower lips. “3 months.”

Tao’s entire first semester, Jongdae realizes. Tao’s entire college career.

“It’s always hard,” Jongdae says delicately, fingers careful, hopefully soothing as they brush over Tao’s knuckles. “Losing any kind of relationship, especially if it’s longer, especially if he just becomes a part of your routine.”

Blinking hard, as if to quell another wave of tears, lower lip trembling as if to keep a sob from spilling forth, Tao motions to the brown paper bag with his chin. 

He effectively ends that conversation. 

They eat bagel sandwiches. Green Chile Clubs, and Tao runs off to the vending machine to buy them iced tea. 

Jongdae wastes the rest of his productive Saturday watching cable movies on his dusty television, ordering—and paying for—a pizza for dinner, cuddling with Tao all the while.

It’s suprisingly easy between them, Tao only wanting to be spoiled, and Jongdae only wanting to spoil, and Jongdae only feels the slightest blip of alarm, of guilt as he rolls over to grab his phone, reschedule for Sunday. 

 

It fast becomes a routine, upon Tao’s prompting, upon both their desires.

Tao doesn't establish whether these are dates or just appointments. Neither for that matter does Jongdae, but Tao is here every Friday night, snacks and smile in tow.

It stops being about Minseok—It wasn't ever really about Minseok, Minseok was just incidental, Tao insists—the second week.

It's instead about movies, music, missing home, and the night inevitably ends with them curled against one another, pressed tight on Jongdae’s dorm-issue extended twin.

In contrast to his earlier hesitance—his sincere apologetic hesitance, Tao begs to take liberties with Jongdae in time. 

His behavior is something almost entitled, as if Tao recongizes that his presence is desired, that he brings explosions of color into the mundanity and otherwise emptiness of Jongdae’s Friday nights, fills the silence with ringing laughter and pitchy, whined syllables of ge ge.

Jongdae is hardly about to protest. 

Tao’s got soft eyes and a curled kittenish smile and the kind of laughter you want to keep provoking, the kind of fond drawled endearments you want to keep earning. 

Jongdae, around Tao, finds himself uncharacteristically shy, uncharacteristically vulnerable, entirely put out.

Tao unnerves him, and Jongdae lets himself be unnerved. 

 

“I’m not saying this was my favorite part,” Tao divulges on the fourth week, smelling of the cheese ramen he’d pouted Jongdae into making him, nuzzling into him fully. His words heat over Jongdae’s throat, Tao’s apparently favorite part to linger. “The cuddling, I mean. I’m not saying it was my favorite part when I was with Minseok because the sex was amazing, but this was one of my favorite parts. And you’re so much better than he was.” A fleeting kiss, the barest pressure of his nose up, up, up towards Jongdae’s jaw. 

There’s another half-formed almost moment, also fleeting, also thwarted. 

Jongdae choses not to dwell on it. 

 

Five weeks in, Jongdae is surprised when Tao doesn't come, surprised that he has a Tao-less Saturday morning, too, lonelier than he’s had in a long, long time as he’s deprived of Cable TV cartoons, morning cuddles, demands that his ge ge pay attention to him, he’s right here and a fucking _gift_.

Stood up, put out, Jongdae’s surprised, also, to realize that he doesn't have Tao's number, his email, his Facebook.

Surprised, mildly concerned, mildly hurt, Jongdae makes the most of his suddenly productive Saturday. He redecorates the bulletin boards in his hall—Winter Theme—catches up on course readings, practices by himself in the studio, has lunch with Joonmyun hyung, shoveling more forkfuls of salad into his mouth as he ignores the amusement in the elder’s eyes, who asks after that tall Chinese boy that has been monopolizing all of Jongdae’s time. 

(He’s _not_ a nobody as Jongdae insists. Not to Jongdae, but Jongdae can’t let on, can only shove more salad into his mouth and pointedly ignore the teasing glimmer in Joonmyun’s eyes)

 

Jongdae also goes to a bookstore, buys old CDs from the discount bin, eats dinner at a fast food restaurant by himself with his earphones in place as he watches his phone listlessl. 

 

And oh heat, Jongdae realizes as he settles in for bed that night, answers a text from Baekhyun asking if he’s seen his blindfold, his boyfriend Yixing wants it for this weekend because well /you know/ ;). 

Jongdae rolls his eyes, then sits up with a gasp, realization hitting him hard and hot. 

Oh, it must be his heat.

Tao’s heat. 

And unbidden, unwanted, uninvited, lurid images assault him then, clawing their way up towards his consciousness. Tao flushed and naked and desperate, gasping for a knot, his knot. Please, please, please, ge ge, I want it. It’s mine. It’s mine. It’s mine.

And oh, with a startling clarity, the painful honesty of a late, late night, Jongdae realizes that he _wants_ that. He wants to be the Alpha hooking Tao’s legs over his shoulders and stretching him open and sobbing. He wants to be the one bending forward to swallow all of his helpless moans, drinking the headiness of his sweet, sweet response until he _drowns_ it. He wants to take him over and over and over again, the way that Tao begs to be taken, the way he _deserves_ to be taken. 

Fuck, he really fucking _wants_ that. Fuck how has he only just _now_ seen it. 

But no, Jongdae realizes upon further reflection. No it’s less fleeting than that, less simple, less easy to satisfy. 

Tao unsettles him, unnerves him, gets under his skin, and Jongdae _likes_ it, _likes_ him. 

Jongdae doesn’t want to be another Minseok, another Alpha with an appointment to keep, another knot to sooth Tao through the sweaty shivers of heat. No, Jongdae wants more.

Jongdae wants to spoil Tao rotten, sooth him, indulge him, cuddle and coddle and cradle and care for him. 

Entirely unsettled, entirely unnerved as the itch for Tao settles beneath his skin, Jongdae tosses and turns for most of the night, agonizing over what to do with this sudden awareness, the sudden proof, this sudden, sharp ache. 

It doesn’t pass, and Jongdae doesn’t _want_ it to. 

He’ll ask him, he decides, some 50 turns in. He’ll ask to help.

 

It _was_ his heat, Tao divulges over greasy hamburgers that next Friday, Tao’s treat, Tao’s apology. 

But he apologizes verbally, too, around his next mouthful, pausing to sip from his garrishly purple plastic fast food cup as Jongdae assures him that it’s okay. 

Jongdae folds his hamburger wrapper into fourths, then eighths as Tao speaks between bites. 

“Still I’m sorry I cancelled on you and didn’t tell you. I—I didn’t have your number. And I was too busy...taking care of myself to tell my roommate to come find you.” A grimace, maybe a blush, a forced smile then another bite from his burger. “But we’re in the clear for at least 6 more weeks, so you’re blessed with me for a while longer.”

And Minseok’s name is banned, an unofficial rule since their first Saturday together. It’s always _him_ and _he_ , but his name is tumbling forth from his mouth before Jongdae can quite catch the syllables, swallow the question.

“Did Minseok used to—help?”

Tao smarts at the question, but responds with a resolute shake of his head, his lips pursing, his bangs falling in his eyes. He sets down his hamburger, his soda on Jongdae’s rickety plastic nightstand, folds himself like he always does when he’s uncomfortable, or at a loss for words. 

Jongdae’s made him uncomfortable, made him lose his words. 

“No,” Tao says. “We didn’t want to complicate things like that. _I_ didn’t want to complicate things like that.”

Tao’s socked feet whisper over Joonmyun’s quilt as he tugs his knees to his chest, presses his chin to his kneecaps. His fingers play with the distressed hem of his tight, darkwashed jeans. 

“Alphas, I think they don’t really understand what it can mean to someone, how vulnerable you are when you’re—I think maybe nobody but an Omega knows,” Tao continues after a long, pensive pause. “I don't ask Alphas to knot me during heat, touch me during heat unless we’re dating. I don’t let them see me like that unless we’re dating. We weren't dating.”

And the proposal that Jongdae has been agonizing over suddenly dies on his tongue. And he's left with something else to digest, something else to unpack and dissect, fingers tangling in his pajama-cuddle-with-Tao pants.

"Have you?" Tao asks after a beat, his voice soft. "Helped someone," he clarifies. "Someone that you loved or that you just liked or that you were maybe just attracted to. Is it like that for Alphas always? It’s always something more for me. Is it something—less for you?”

Jongdae thinks about tangled fingers and breathless gasps for more and the utterly awful need to press closer, more, be one, one, one, thinks of kisses that taste like love and touches that feel like blessings and names that sounded like prayers. Of want and love and heat heat heat collascing into something too-hot, too-wet, too-perfect for him to bear. 

But he thinks also of blurred faces and vicelike grips around his knot, thinks of people whose name he doesn’t know, can’t moan. And Jongdae remembers the soft shiver of an Alpha ghosting over his mouth, his responding rasp of an _Omega_ , of bruised lips and skin torn raw and the most deliciously sated urges. 

“Not—not always,” Jongdae decides. “Sometimes, though. It’s never—It’s just like sex, I think, for me. I can _choose_ to make it special, choose to make it just about having fun, choose to make it about comforting someone.” 

Tao nods minutely, diplomatically, eyebrows furrowing with thought. 

“It has to be more intentional for me,” Tao continues. “I’m hot, I know that. I know I can be something that someone wants to fuck, but heat isn’t about that for me. It’s a different kind of closeness, I think. It’s—you know, it’s private. And I need someone that I can trust. Someone that I keep. Someone that wants _me_. Someone that thinks I’m special, that thinks this moment is special, too. I need that, I think.”

Tao licks his lips absently, and Jongdae wonders where their encounters fall on the spectrum of closeness, whether Jongdae’s words and Jongdae’s touches and Jongdae’s time makes Tao feel special—enough. 

“Minsek’s knotted me before,” Tao continues. “Almost every—every time we hooked up, so it’s not about that. I’m not a virgin. I’m not a romantic. I’m not some kid.” A deprecating laugh, at his own expense, at Minseok’s words. “But I think that’s always been sacred for me. And even when I didn’t—even when you know, we were _together_ , I knew that it we weren’t close enough for that, that he didn’t want me the way that I needed to be wanted.” A long pause. Tao’s chin hooks over his knee again, and his jaw scraps over the denim, skin red from the contact. “We weren’t boyfriends, you know. I was too young for him. Needed too much. Was too much.”

“ _For him_ ,” Jongdae insists—too loud, too fierce, too earnest. Tao jumps, and Jongdae’s nails are dragging down his own legs, biting into his thighs as he thinks through the words he wants to say. His thoughts are a jumble of wrong, wrong, wrong, what you’re thinking, how you see yourself is wrong wrong wrong. “For _him_ , Tao. But people can and do want you for you as you are. You’re not—or maybe I don’t know, you might be too needy, too much for some, but you aren’t for others. You’re just the right amount for others.” A pause, and Jongdae’s pulse is racing, his words spilling forth quieter now, but still just as fierce, still just as earnest. “For—for me.” 

And this is the most clumsy, inopportune confession. 

Jongdae can feel Tao’s eyes on him, the silence suddenly very oppressive. He swallows back the qualifier crawling it’s way up his throat. _For someone like me, I mean. Not me. I’m not telling you that I feel that, just giving an example, Tao_. 

The oppressive silence stretches on and on and on, Tao’s eyes heavy on him all the while. But they’re soft, surprised when Jongdae braves his glance upwards even though his lips are parted, body stiff, tense. 

“Ge ge,” Tao finally says. Around his own thighs, Tao’s hands are shaking, his fingers trembling as they whisper over denim, and Jongdae steadies them with a soothing, wanting, lingering touch. There’s intent in it though he tries to dispel it, want in it though he tries to smother it.

And Jongdae _can’t_ take it back. Doesn’t want to. Needs this moment to grow and stretch, enough for him to find the answers he needs. 

“Really,” Jongdae insists, palm hot where it connects with Tao’s skin. He doesn’t want to let go. “Not because of your heat. Not because I’m trying to comfort you. I _like_ you— _want_ you like this.”

Tao swallows thickly, and Jongdae’s palm skates higher, presses soft and hesitant against Tao’s throat. 

“Ge,” Tao says, his skin vibrating beneath Jongdae’s hand. “Ge, I also—but I didn’t know that—can you kiss me?”

Jongdae’s hand shifts, enough to cradle Tao’s cheekbone, catch the flutter of his pulse. Sliding forward, Jongdae coaxes him into a kiss, groaning at the plush give of his soft lips, the sweetness of his breath as it ghosts over Jongdae’s lips. 

Hesitant, cursory, intent, wanting, Jongdae eases Tao’s mouth open, lips parting, hand cradling as he loses himself in the fragile, fleeting sensation. Tao gasps, parts his lips enough for Jongdae to urge it harder, more thorough, lips lingering, teeth grazing just briefly. 

At his side, Tao’s hands tremble, but he kisses back after a beat, _actually_ kisses, movements shy but intent as his tongue glides into Jongdae’s mouth. And it’s Jongdae’s turn to tremble. 

And oh, Tao tastes sweeter than he could have ever _imagined_.

Jongdae chases his mouth when he makes to pull away, drags him forward by the nape of the neck for another kiss, deeper, more lingering, more awful, telling longing bleeding into the press of his tongue, the movement of his lips. Fervor, heat in it, too, as he steadily loses himself in the dizziness of Tao’s enthusiasm, the fervor and heat of Tao’s mouth.

Jongdae groans as Tao's hands tangle in his hair, tugging hard to urge him even closer. Jongdae straddles his waist, lets his hands tangle, too, tugs, too, as he sucks on Tao’s tongue, relishing the overwhelming sweetness of his response. 

Tao moans into his mouth at that, and Jongdae likes the taste of that even more, tugs and kisses and tugs and kisses and tugs and kisses again and again until Tao is practically sobbbing into his mouth, fingers scrambling up his spine, catching on rumpled fabric when Jongdae grinds down experimentally. 

This is moving so fast, but Jongdae wants it even faster, pausing to suckle on Tao’s bottom lip before groaning about how much he _wants_ him, can he have him, fuck, fuck, _please_ , Tao.

Tao agrees with a whimper. 

Eyes glossy with arousal, eyelids hooded, lips parted, he collapses back into his bed. He has so many times before, but never like this, never for this, and Jongdae, kneeling over him, pauses to revel in the beauty of it, drinking in every detail. 

The gorgeous flush blooming across his skin, the helpless heave of his throat, the way his hair falls in his eyes as he reaches out for Jongdae. 

Jongdae falls over him to kiss him again. And then again and again and again, barely letting one kiss end before beginning another, barely, barely, barely letting their lips part, only as much as strictly necessary as he loses himself in the sweetness of Tao’s mouth, the heat of his response. 

It’s hot, heady, heavy, and Jongdae wouldn't mind drowning in it, him, this thing between them. Wouldn’t mind having Tao’s scent stained all over his sheets, his heat bleeding onto his bed, his body falling apart beneath his palms, his tongue over and over again. 

Tao parts his legs, and Jongdae slots himself between them, fabric rustling as he grinds down with more force, more intent than before. Beneath him, Tao’s hard and flushed and oh so responsive, an imploring beautiful thing. And oh, he deserves to be indulged, deserves to be touched and kissed and fucked _exactly_ how he likes. 

_Tell me, Tao. Tell me. Let this Alpha spoil you_.

Jongdae’s clothes are easy to remove, soft rumpled cotton that he peels between heavy kisses, steady grinds, but Tao’s require more work, breathless laughter and frustrated moans as fingers scramble over painted on denim and strained zippers and tight leather. 

But fuck, it’s worth it. Tao naked and hard and hot and panting and trembling and eager and stickysweet and beautiful beautiful beautiful, sprawled across his sheets. It’s so fucking worth it. 

Jongdae just stares, just appreciates for a long, long moment. 

Fine art should be, he reasons as his eyes drag over every golden, perfect inch of him, fingers following soon after. 

And Jongdae doesn’t know why Minseok broke his heart, isnt qualified to comment on the issues surrounding their relationship. But Jongdae's dizzy on the utter perfection of the naked man beneath him, and he’s so offended at the utter disregard for Tao’s fucking beauty as Tao’s knees tremble before knocking together, fingers tremble before twisting into the sheets. 

He’s too beautiful not to touch, to beautiful not to be kept and utterly worshipped. 

“You’re the sweetest fucking thing,” Jongdae groans into the crook of his throat, something sharp, something awed, something breathless bleeding into his tone. “The most gorgeous fucking thing.”

And Tao moans, lips achingly glossy as they part with a soft Jong—Jongdae ge, _please_. 

Jongdae curses softly at that, looms over him then lets his hands drag down Tao’s so he can feel the hard, hard sinew, the deliciously pronounced strength vibrating in every single muscle, beneath his golden, impossibly soft skin.

And really how could Minseok say "no" to this, how could he pick that shorter, paler, quieter, weaker boy over _this_. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. 

Only this, Tao stroking his cock as he begs Jongdae to touch him, that’s really all that matters. 

Tao, messy and decadent and rich and so achingly sweet, here like this, just for him. 

Tao is so eager, so responsive, so achingly loud, voicing his approval with long hitching whines, his guiding, clumsy hands on Jongdae’s shoulders. He urges Jongdae down his taut, tantalizing body, Jongdae only too eager to comply, lips and teeth and tongue exploring, appreciating, memorizing as they drag over over his throat, his chest,the ripple of his abs. 

Jongdae continues his descent going down, down, down until he’s suckling Tao’s cock, fingers spanning over his trembling thighs to hold him steady as Tao’s entire body fucking quakes with pleasure. 

Tao is loudest, most eager, most responsive then, the muscles in his thighs bunching, curling as he arches into Jongdae’s mouth, pulses hot and heavy and exquisitely musky on Jongdae’s tongue. 

Jongdae swirls his tongue, bobs once, twice as his fingers graze over the seam of Tao’s balls, lower to drag over the pucker of his entrance, and Tao’s voice pitches even louder, even more desperate. Jongdae gags, relaxes his throat, bobs again, teases over his entrance again. And Tao’s fingers are in his own hair, tugging as he writhes upwards with a bitten-off plea. 

Mesmerized, Jongdae continues in his ministrations, pauses only to retrieve the lube when Tao begs for that, too. 

His fingers, Jongdae ge. Please just touch him. Please, he’d say that Tao just had to _ask_. 

And Jongdae doesn’t have the patience to tease, the resolve to deny him. 

Groaning into his thigh, Jongdae eases him open, and Tao gets even louder, impossibly so. Aware of it, he twists to bite at his own shoulder, muffling every high, ringing whine with his own skin as he body presses back towards every deliberate thrust of Jongdae’s fingers. He flutters and clenches around Jongdae’s fingers, begging with both words, both actions for more, more, more. 

And fuck, he looks amazing like this, utterly honest, utterly vulnerable, utterly lost, his body clutching helplessly at his fingers, greedy and mindless, demanding pleasure that Jongdae is entirely too happy to give, sure to drag, to curl, to tease, then press, then prod. 

Tao takes it all, demands even more. 

And flushed and golden, spread out on his mattress, Tao is the most beautiful thing Jongdae has seen in a long, long while, willing and wanting and wanton and his to claim—at least for the moment.

Jongdae fans his fingers apart, spares a long, lingering lick to the pulsing shaft of Tao’s cock as he continues to ease him open and gasping. 

His head is dizzy, body hot, thrumming with the base animal desire to take, take, take, claim, claim, claim. And Jongdae’s cock aches, hangs heavy and hot between his legs, drags against the rough fabric of his quilt as he watches Tao steadily fall apart.

Mine, mine, mine, he thinks, for now, now, now. 

“Fuck me,” Tao whimpers, falling, falling, falling. 

And oh, Jongdae has never been good at saying no, especially not when requests are paired with large eyes and warm skin and soft hearts. When it’s a breathless, beautiful, beautiful, begging boy making the request. To fuck him, please. Please, fuck him. 

Jongdae falls over him, hands, mouth greedy, urgent. Looming over him, Jongdae pulls Tao’s quivering legs up, around his waist, urges him further back onto the mattress, before pressing pressing pressing inside. 

And oh, Tao’s even louder then, his breath faltering, moan high and ringing and lilting as it stutters forth from his ruddy, swollen lips. The gorgeous sound ghosts hot and wet at Jongdae's chin, and Jongdae turns to swallow it whole as he bottoms out, loses himself, buried in that wonderful warmth. 

And oh, it’s too much much much, too hot, too wet, too tight, too perfect, Tao too beautiful, too responsive, too loud, and Jongdae finds himself drowning in the excess, seeking it out as he pulls back, thrusts back in. 

Deep, dragging, deliberate, just just just how Tao wants, just as much as Jongdae can manage. 

Tao’s hand claw down his spine, anchor on his ass as he presses back towards every push. He’s entirely too fluid, entirely too eager, entirely too loud, entirely too much, just just just the right amount to leave Jongdae reeling, have Jongdae driving into him faster, harder, deeper, like Tao deserves to be fucked, like Tao demands to be fucked. 

And Tao is wrecked beneath him, sweet and sobbing and all the more stunning for it, hiccuping out the most gorgeous sounds as he loses himself in the whirlwind of sensations, too. 

The pleasure races like lightening, like fire, honey-rich in Jongdae’s veins. He can feel it building in the base of his spine, feeling it swelling at the base of his cock, clawing its way up his nervous system after every increasingly erratic, increasingly heavy fuck. 

“Tao,” he hisses against Tao’s chest, nosing, mouthing, biting at the flushed sweaty skin as his hips press even faster, harder, deeper, more, more, more. It’s swelling, catching, catching, catching, and he wants wants wants. “My—my knot.”

Tao’s eyes burn as they lock with his. Glazed as they are, blown with pleasure as they are, framed by heavy lashes and brimming with tears of pleasure, oh, there’s an awful uncertainty there, an awful apology there. 

“I—I’m not—ge ge, I don’t want to—” Tao manages around a moan, fingers clawing at Jongdae’s spine as he whimpers through Jongdae’s next four thrusts. “I’m sorry, but I’m not—not ready for—“

Jongdae hushes him with a fierce, earnest kiss, cradling his face and letting his cock slip free with a heavy groan that he spills into Tao’s hot, perfect mouth. 

Swollen, thrumming, so sensitive, aching, Jongdae drags against Tao's trembling thighs, shifts to press flush against him. Pulsing flesh catches on pulsing flesh, heat and pleasure compounding, climbing after every fuck forward. 

It’s mounting, electric, utterly consuming. Jongdae is close close _close_ , Tao seems even closer. 

Beneath him, he is shuddering monumentally, moaning helplessly, the sounds staccatoing, shivering, going higher, higher, higher before they crest in a long, long whimper. Spine bowed, muscles taut, face twisted with pleasure, Tao comes. Loud, gasping, messy, long, sweet, sweet, sweet, and so utterly gorgeous. 

Jongdae’s breath hitches in his chest. 

The world seems to stop for a moment as Tao is lost in pure sensation. Seems to recover with the panting softness of his heady afterglow. 

And Jongdae, still so hard, still so desperate to come, even more harder, even more desperate after this utter gift, he bites down on Tao’s bare, sweaty shoulder, shifts to rut against his inner thigh. He chases his own release with a renewed vigor, nearly crippling desire. 

He’s so, so aching close, and it only takes Tao’s lips at his throat, the sweetness of his breath, his imploring _Alpha_ to have Jongdae coming, too, body jerking weakly as he paints across Tao’s waiting, willing body, collapsing fully onto him with a ringing, wanting sound. 

Tao’s hands curl around his shoulders, soothing where they had been biting, gentle where they had been rough with pleasure, soothing him as Jongdae pants into his throat, lets himself be guided to his side. 

Close, still, curled, cradle—still, in one another’s arms. 

Jongdae’s spine is scratched red and raw, voice hoarse, skin bitten and blooming with bruises, and he feels thoroughly sated, well-fucked, pleasantly exhausted, fond as he drinks in the panting, pliant, perfect boy beside him. 

Tao smells sticky sweet after orgasm, stickier sweet, all the more inviting. His voice is hoarse, breath still labored, but words molasses-slow, soft and sated. 

_Ge ge_. 

And lulled, fucked into a pleasant langour, Jongdae is overcome with the sleepy sort of need to stay close and not leave for a long, long time. 

He thinks of a bee, honey drunk, drowning in that sweetness, finding what he wants and letting it kill him. But thinks also of excess and indulgence and how Tao’s too much is just the right amount. 

Tao’s the kind of Omega, the kind of man you lose yourself in, and Jongdae lets himself be lost for just a little bit longer, curling to press a lazy smile to Tao’s still-trembling, golden skin.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for the taobeis exchange on lj


End file.
